Flight Behavior

“Look at this,” Dellarobia said, amazed to find handmade quilts and afghans tucked between ratty blankets, all in the same two-dollar category. She spread out a crocheted afghan in hues of blue and purple. “So much work went into this, and now it’s lying here begging. Why would somebody give this away?”

“Mammaw died,” Dovey proposed, “and the kids are trying to forget her.”

Dellarobia put the afghan in her cart to save its dignity. Dovey arranged a pair of crocheted watermelon slices over her shirt like a bikini, but tossed them back as Preston approached. He was carrying a pillow that looked like a pig wearing a tutu.

“I thought Cordie might like this,” he said. Cordie reached for the ballerina pig and let out a howl that earned some attention from nearby shoppers.

“Tell you what, Preston. Let’s get her out and you two can poke around together. But stay right with her, okay?” Dellarobia knew he would. Cordie threw her arms around the pig and ran after her brother. Dovey perused a shelf of exercise tapes: Atlas Abs, Bun Buster. The floor beyond was crowded with exercise equipment in like-new condition, cast aside in haste. This place was a museum of people’s second thoughts. Dellarobia clucked her tongue. “New year’s resolutions didn’t last a month.”

“Christmas presents,” Dovey agreed. “All those husbands and wives dreaming of a slim, sexy version of the old ball and chain.”

Cordie and Preston were about thirty feet away, trying out what he was calling the “exercise things.” Dellarobia heard him say, “Mama won’t get that for you, we can’t afford it.” She kept the kids in her radar as she and Dovey ambled past a row of Venetian blinds and bathroom items. The categories were mysterious.

“Here you go.” Dovey brandished a rolling pin engraved with the words “Husband Tamer.”

“Now see, they should sell that as a package with the exercise equipment. To help keep the old ball and chain on the bike. Like an extended warranty.”

They exited the aisle and encountered a sobering wall of crutches hanging on a huge pegboard. Wooden crutches, aluminum walkers, items the previous owners were definitely glad to get out of the house. Some were barely used, souvenirs of some kid’s brief hiatus from school sports, while others had a deep gloss of wear on the hand grips, and rubber tips as worn as the oldest of shoe leather. Whoever gave those up had moved into some other mode of transport. By wheelchair or by pallbearer.

At the end of another aisle, a couple of college-age kids were removing everything from a shelf, presumably because they wanted to buy the shelf. They wore shorts and flip-flops, and the girl had a tattoo that resembled barbed wire encircling her ankle. Dellarobia imagined their lives, setting up some little apartment. Unmarried.

“What’s with these kids running around half naked in winter?” Dovey asked.

The maternal tone surprised Dellarobia. “Maybe winter’s not that big a deal for them,” she suggested. “They probably don’t have to be outside their cars or buildings that much.” She found herself fascinated by this young pair. A store employee materialized and began to argue with them, putting items back on the shelf with exaggerated fatigue as he shook his head. Evidently this was routine. College kids were all over the clothing racks too. She’d watched a girl with an expensive haircut and highlights try on the same green blazer Dellarobia was now wearing around the store. Maybe that’s why she’d kept it on, competition. That girl had a fat, sparkly diamond on her necklace and probably a daddy paying her tuition. She didn’t need to be here.

Preston appeared, with Cordie in tow, making his way down the aisle carrying a box with a handle that was much too heavy for him. A slide projector, she could see from the picture on the box. One of those carousel things they used in ancient history.

“I thought Dr. Byron could use this,” Preston said.

“You know what? Maybe he could. Let’s leave it here, but I’ll ask him.” She checked the tag. “Ten dollars is a good price. You can tell him about it Monday.”

Preston lit up. Dellarobia let him come to the study site sometimes after school, finding simple things for him to do that made him insanely happy. Dr. Byron didn’t seem to mind, even when Preston hung around him with too much vigor, throwing his arms around Dr. Byron’s legs by way of greeting. Attaching like a barnacle, Ovid called it. “Here is my friend, Barnacle Bill!” And the cautious response, “No, Barnacle Preston.” The sight of them together filled Dellarobia with complicated emotions she had to ignore.

Past the crutches was a giant rack of purses: fake leopard, red sequins, gold lamé. So many, you’d think the world contained nothing but females and their money. Cordie dropped the pillow and went for an extra-large fake alligator bag. She took off after Preston at her fast little trot, grabbing bottom-shelf items and stuffing them in the purse. A shoplifter-in-training. When they were gone, Dovey asked, “So who else is in love with Dr. Butterfly, besides Preston Turnbow and his mother?”

“He’s my boss, Dovey.”

“He’s your boss, and you blush every time his name is spoken.”

She made no answer. They arrived in the toy and child-equipment area, which was hopping with unsupervised children. She watched Preston and Cordie move down a long line of child-safety seats on the floor, carefully sitting in each and every one.

“What level of seriousness are we discussing here,” Dovey prodded, “on a scale of one to ten? Eight being that hottie friend of Cub’s that used to bring you wood chips, nine being that kid that lured you up there to quote-unquote end your life. I’m not even counting the geezer at Rural Incorporated.”

A federal assistance representative, a tree trimmer, a lineman who was frankly a child: all her life, men had been lining up, it seemed, to ask nothing of her whatsoever. Her mother’s social security number, baby where’d you get those eyes, the hard questions had topped out right around there. Until now. None of those men ever saw the person inside. Or the one she might become. Dovey had hit on the subject she couldn’t discuss. “Zero point zero,” Dellarobia said. “He has a wife.”

“And gripes about her cooking.”

“Not really. To tell you the truth, he never talks about her at all.”

“No heat in the kitchen, then.”